


Go With It

by Vav



Category: New Girl (TV 2011)
Genre: Gender-Neutral Pronouns, M/M, Other, Sexual Humor, he/they schmidt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:07:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28101393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vav/pseuds/Vav
Summary: Schmidt & Nick need to define the relationship, but Schmidt kind of wants to define himself first. Or: he/they Schmidt.
Relationships: Nick Miller & Schmidt (New Girl), Nick Miller/Schmidt (New Girl)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 49





	Go With It

**Author's Note:**

> bro i don’t even know. just think about he/they schmidt and relax. i will note tho that this was written with the idea that neither of them have ever addressed schmidt's gender or referred to them as anything other than "he" aloud.

This is a good idea, right? It’s about time they do this, right?

“Well, if you _were_ my boyfriend, I-” Nick starts, but Schmidt interrupts Nick by fake retching. Wrong. “What, too high school? A little too sleepaway camp for you?”

“No, are you insane? I’m not a boy,” Schmidt corrects dismissively with a roll of the eyes like it's the most absurd thing Nick's ever said. "I'm an adult now. I've got the night terrors about waiting in line at the bank to prove it."

“Okay. My man friend,” Nick teases with a wink. Schmidt slumps down on the couch even more. “I mean, we could always skip straight to husband.” Schmidt could smack him. He doesn’t like how cocky their relationship – or whatever this is – has made Nick. “I think we’re pretty much common law married by now, eh?” Nick takes a swig of his beer, something to calm his nerves. He doesn’t do this. He’d be perfectly content sleeping with Schmidt and eating dinner with them and watching people wipe out on their bikes at the park with them without putting a label on anything. But would he really?

“Come on, Nick,” Schmidt says in that loud, fake-stern voice of theirs that’s kind of amused, kind of theatrical, kind of something else. Annoyed? Scared? Who has time for this? “Quit yanking my proverbial chain.” Then, as if he's talking behind somebody else’s back: “We both know I haven’t worn a real chain since March 2001.”

“Jess says we have to do this,” Nick announces in exasperation. “She seems to have it all together. Right? She’s engaged. That’s, like, pretty together. Right?” Schmidt avoids eye contact and drains his beer, eyes to the sky.

“She said we have to def’ the re-laysh or we’ll be stuck in this vicious cycle of beer and blowjobs and watching Rush Hour 3 and drinking beer until we’re just giving each other blowjobs all over again,” Schmidt rambles, repeating what Jess said almost to a T.

“I kind of like that cycle, actually,” Nick whispers, shrugging and frowning.

“I do too, Nick!” Schmidt snaps quasi-playfully. “But I think she’s right.”

“Alright, so boyfriend? Male companion? Penis pal?”

“What part of me screams ‘male’ to you, Nicholas?” Schmidt asks, setting their beer down and beginning to rise from the couch. Nick opens his mouth, but Schmidt points an aggressive finger at him. “Don’t answer that.”

Schmidt storms to his room. For whatever reason, the two of them still mostly sleep in separate rooms. Maybe it’s the itch to deny all of this, deny the feelings and the way Nick listens to every single word Schmidt says now and the way Schmidt clings to Nick’s frame when they’re together as if Schmidt could ever, ever lose him.

“Partner?” Nick calls out. A guess. What the fuck does he know? Nick always knew he didn’t understand women, and he guesses he doesn’t understand men either. But what about Schmidt?

Schmidt stops two feet in front of their door and turns their head to the side, looking warily over their shoulder. Nick loves their profile, wants to trace every line and curve and angle with his eyes and nose and lips.

“That’s the gayest thing I’ve ever heard,” Schmidt responds quietly, shoulders slumped, and it sounds more like surrender than a joke.

It doesn’t sit right with Nick. He finishes his own beer and rises, pulling up his cargo shorts and making sure he has both socks on. Schmidt always told him never to interrupt while the door is closed, but he’s never complained a single time yet. Not even when Nick barged in while Schmidt was doing a face mask to draw meaningless circles on Schimdt’s abs and talk about the Bulls.

Nick raises his fist to knock on Schmidt’s door, but the door opens before he has the chance, because of course it does.

“I need to brush my teeth,” Schmidt sighs as if Nick’s going to believe he's going to bed at eight o’clock. Nick braces both arms against either side of the door frame as if Schmidt would make any attempt whatsoever to move past him.

“Partner?” Nick asks softly but directly like he knows Schmidt needs sometimes. All Schmidt does is have corporate assholes yell at them all day. They don’t need it from Nick, too – unless they want it, beg for it.

“I don’t-”

“Partner?” Nick repeats, a little more sternly this time, all softness coming from his eyes and the way he frowns a little bit in concern. Schmidt’s eyes find the floor. Nick cup Schmidt's jaw and tilts his head up so they can make eye contact. Schmidt rolls his eyes. Again. Nick learned long ago not to take offense to that. It’s just one of the many ways Schmidt communicates. Schmidt’s eyes find Nick’s - finally.

“I - yeah,” they shrug.

“What?”

“Yeah,” Schmidt says, but it’s still too quiet. Nick’s eyes bulge. “Yeah. Yes, okay? Yes.”

Nick’s eyes scan Schmidt’s face, and he can’t help but grin. Schmidt looks relieved, and it makes Nick elated.

“Quit staring at me like that,” Schmidt reprimands. “You want to go down to blow-town or no?”

“Gross.” Nick strokes Schmidt’s cheek with his thumb and watches Schmidt’s lips turn up at the corners. Coy, inviting. “But we can talk about this more later, right?”

Schmidt scowls immediately, brows drawn together and mouth agape. Nick shakes his own head so fast that his cheeks make a flapping noise, and when he stops, he smacks his lips together and sticks his tongue out like he just tasted something rancid.

“What the fuck was that?” Schmidt asks, then slips into a mocking tone. “Baby wanna _talk more_? Disgusting, Nicholas.”

“I know, I don’t know what got into me, I just-”

“Who are you? Jay Leno? ‘ _Talk more._ ’ Mother of god.” Schmidt moves out of the doorway. “Get in here, you fucking freak.”


End file.
